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Henri was glad their line wasn’t next. He needed all of the next forty seconds to recover. Dylan was right. It was unlikely to be a one-goal game. They would need to get the next two, simple as that. They could get two goals against the Otters. They’d done it several times already. Two goals was nothing.

But it was as if the floodgates had opened. The Otters had sensed their weakness, had sniffed out the bone-deep exhaustion plaguing most of the team, the hidden injuries that they hadn’t even told anyone else in the locker room but were laid bear to the other team. With what Henri was certain was unearned confidence, the Otters peppered Briggs with shot after shot after shot.

Briggs was a very good goalie. One of the best Henri had played with. But he was only human. He let in another a few minutes later, making it a 0-2 game with less than seven minutes left. Seven fucking minutes when they hadn’t scored in the last fifty-three.

“Hey.” A hand fell on his arm.

Henri blinked away tears. Dylan was smiling at him.

“We got this. You don’t think I can score two goals?”

You’re hurt. You can’t shoot. This isn’t us joking around.

But Dylan was looking at him expectantly. Those beautiful blue eyes, so earnest…

“Well,” he said. “We’re down by two. I’d prefer it if you scored three.”

Dylan lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll do my best.”

Dylan didn’t score, nor did the rest of them. Seven minutes became six, then five, then four. In desperation, Coach Krzysztofek called a timeout.

“O-zone face-off coming up. Briggs, you did great but we’re pulling you. Give me Baptiste, Everett, Novak, Knox, Lynwood, and Duffy. Baptiste, I need a face-off win here. Boys, we need one goal quick so we can get that second one. Our whole fucking season comes down to the next five minutes. Make it count.”

Henri took a deep breath. It would be Russell at the face-off dot, of course. He’d won 12 of the 17 he’d taken tonight, most of them against Henri. The odds weren’t in Henri’s favor.

Henri lost the face-off, but Dylan was there within seconds to pressure the D and force a turnover. A minute and a half of sustained offensive zone pressure where they had five shots on goal by Henri’s count, another five blocked. It was a miracle Knox and Duffy were keeping it in the zone.

They’d already used their time out. They glanced at the bench, but Coach stood there with his arms crossed and shook his head. They were the last line.

“Barely two minutes to score two goals,” Novak muttered to his left. “I’m fucking gassed, bro.”

Me too, Henri thought between big lungfuls of air. He didn’t dare say it. It felt like a betrayal to even think it.

“We have to do it,” Henri said instead when he’d almost caught his breath. They didn’t have any other choice.

By pure force of will, they did. There was a board battle with half the players on the ice crowding in. The Turkeys needed the puck. The Otters wanted to kill the clock. Henri was late into the pile and was able to scoop the puck out from the mess of sticks and skates.

“Baps!” someone screamed, so Henri sent it blind. Stupid, stupid, he should never. But he heard the satisfying sound of a puck hitting a stick.

He turned in time to catch the puck go in top right over the goalie’s glove off of Duffy’s stick.

The five of them swarmed Duffy. Almost tackled him to the ice. Shaking each other and screaming because they were still alive! In fact, Henri wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt as alive as he did in that moment.

Together they went to the bench and skated by to fistbump everyone. The Turkeys looked rejuvenated, as if the last fifty odd minutes had never happened.

No one was more excited than Dylan, who had chest-bumped all of them at the end of the line.

They always said Dylan Everett was a selfish player. It wasn’t possible to get that many goals without being selfish. But those people weren’t paying attention. They saw him shoot, and they saw him celebrate again and again and again, some of those cellys nicer than the goals. What they didn’t see was that Dylan grinned twice as wide when his teammates scored.

They headed to center ice for another face-off. They didn’t bother asking for a line change. Unless they went to overtime, there wouldn’t be any. Henri eyed the scoreboard. 52 seconds. Okay. Definitely possible.

“I think I changed my mind,” Russell said as he lined up opposite him. His cheeks were flushed, and sweat clung to his brow. Still, he looked less tired than Henri had felt at the start of the game. “Maybe no more luck for you.”

Henri shouldn’t have found it endearing—he could think of at least ten players off the top of his head he’d want to punch if they said it—but somehow it was.

“It’s okay. I've got plenty of skill too.”

Henri won the face-off.